


First, Only, Best

by plentyofmalk



Series: Tumblr Prompts [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post S1 finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 21:24:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6873901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plentyofmalk/pseuds/plentyofmalk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She’s doing it again, rubbing her thumb almost raw across the blasted seat, so she does the only other thing that she knows will keep it occupied and grasps his fingers up with her own. She marvels at the fact that his are so much warmer than her own. That even unconsciously, he’s taking care of her in this chilly medical room.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	First, Only, Best

The med bay needed new chairs.

It’s an odd thought to have, she realizes, but the alternative thoughts buzzing around in her head are far too complicated and morose to consider giving attention to. She’d much rather focus on the unforgiving back support, or the way the rough fabric of the seat burned the pad of her thumb after stroking the sides of it for too long. It’s physical and quantifiable. Something she can easily put into words.

It’s a pain much easier to cope with than the sight of Fitz lying in a hospital bed, fifty six hours from a watery grave. There’s so much left to determine at this point, but she knows the odds he faces. She also knows that if he were awake right now, he would be pointing out that just because she’s a doctor doesn’t mean _she’s a doctor_. She can imagine it so vividly -- his tone, sarcasm dripping from every lilt -- that she nearly rolls her eyes.

She’s doing it again, rubbing her thumb almost raw across the blasted seat, so she does the only other thing that she knows will keep it occupied and grasps his fingers up with her own. She marvels at the fact that his are so much warmer than her own. That even unconsciously, he’s taking care of her in this chilly medical room.

Silence ticks on, interrupted only by the slow and steady _beep..beep..beep_ of the monitors. It reminds her that he’s alive but _he’s..not..here_. The quiet in between eats away at her until she can’t take it and suddenly she begins to ramble, like she always does when she’s nervous.

“Did I ever tell you about Lillian?” She asks. The persistent beeps spur her on.

“Lillian was our family cat. My parents bought her two days before they found out they were pregnant with me. She was beautiful, and small, white with this big,” she gestures with her free hand, “Black spot on her back. And all black paws except for on her front right side. My dad would always tell me that when I was a baby, I would only grab onto that one white paw. You know how he likes to exaggerate,” she laughs, “But either he was telling the truth or he burned all the evidence proving otherwise, because that’s exactly what all the photo of us together showed.”

_Beep..beep.._

“Anyways, her physical traits aren’t important. I just want you to be able to picture what she looked like.” She takes a breath to calm her nerves. Having an unresponsive audience is never something she has been able to cope with. She thrived on immediate feedback from professors, or an acknowledging “hmmf” in the lab from Fitz to let her know he was listening. 

“We did everything together, you see. I hated going anywhere she couldn’t follow. It’s why my mum makes fun over ‘dragging me to the grocery store’ to this day.” She shakes her head, remembering how stubborn she could be when her mother insisted they run errands, and the _’I know you are a very smart girl, but you are still only six (and seven, eight..) years old and I’m not leaving you home by yourself’_ -mantra she became used to hearing. 

“I used to use her stethoscope to listen to Lillian’s heartbeat when she was sleeping. I loved thinking about all the parts inside of us that made up a person. Or a cat, as it were. But I’m sure you already knew that.”

Nothing, of course, but she glances up at his face anyways. The scrape on his forehead is healing nicely. She bitterly wishes that what was underneath the surface would heal just as quickly.

“She was a very quiet cat, too. I can hardly remember her mewing in all the years we had her. So we were all concerned when she became more vocal. I hardly knew what her normal meow sounded like, but she sounded _different_. Almost older than her years. A little while later, I realized her one white paw had a new lump, where I used to rub it. Like this,” she strokes her thumb across the back of his hand. She tells herself it’s to soothe him, but the way her breathing evens out gives her away. “After a week or so, my parents took her to the veterinarian to make sure everything was okay.”

“The vet found more lumps. My parents sat me down a couple of days later and told me Lillian was very sick. But that didn’t make sense to me because I could listen to her little heartbeat on the stethoscope, and she was fine. We tried to make her as comfortable as possible for the next month, but I know now that it was just a matter of time.”

A small sniffle comes out, and she hates feeling eight years old again, but the memories come back too strongly to feel otherwise.

“She went in her sleep one afternoon. Before it happened, my dad told me it was time to thank her for being such a good cat, and to say goodbye. But I didn’t believe him. You might be surprised to hear this, but I needed scientific proof. So I ran into my parent’s room and grabbed my mum’s stethoscope. I wanted to hear her heartbeat again, but it was.. Well, she was already gone.”

She scoots her chair closer to Fitz’s bed, so close that her knees can’t bounce without knocking into the metal bedframe. The dull _smack_ startles her, but the pain -- like that of her thumb -- reminds her to be present.

“A couple months later, we were having dinner one night when my dad suggested that we go to the shelter that weekend to find a new pet in need of a home. I can see why they thought that would be a good idea. The house was awfully still without Lillian pouncing about, after all. But at the time, I got so angry, because I knew they were trying to replace her. They wanted me to move on, but I couldn’t. I was just as stubborn then as you claim I am now.”

She can’t sit any longer. Standing to her feet, she leans over the bed, looking down at his figure, motionless but for the steady rise and fall of his chest. The hand holding onto his own refuses to move, but she brings the other to his shoulder, like that will somehow grab his attention.

“We never had another cat. There was no replacing Lillian, so I wouldn’t allow it. She was the first friend I ever had.”

The hand at his shoulder glides along his neck, jaw, and eventually to his forehead. She brushes an errant curl back up and away from his face. She leans forward until her face is inches from his own. Her throat constricts, burning with emotion, and she knows that talking at normal volume isn’t an option right now. The next part is whispered like a secret, even though nothing could be further from the truth. It’s a fact she’s spent eight years shouting out loud. And she’ll spend the next eight, or twenty, or however long she has, shouting into to universe so it knows who it’s messing with.

“But you, Fitz… You are my _best_.”

She kisses his cheek, willing him to smile. His forehead, willing him to heal. His temple, willing him to understand.

“Please don’t leave me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Simplyshipping requested the tumblr prompt: “You are the best I ever had. Don’t leave me.”
> 
> Find me on tumblr if you want to be friends + request others -- I'm plentyofmalk there, too.


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